


Kamikaze

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar (TV 2009)
Genre: Gen, Newest Tesla S Model Automobile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:06:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28854012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: Peter and Neal go undercover to locate some stolen jewelry. Somehow, while trying to solve the case, Neal manages to exact some much needed revenge on his handler. Payback couldn’t have been sweeter.
Relationships: Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	Kamikaze

To say that Peter Burke was an aggressive driver would be an understatement. Every time Neal was tucked in next to his handler in the Taurus’ death seat, he found his vocabulary being broadened by the words that spewed out of Peter’s mouth. Some Neal had already heard and could put into context, but other nouns and adjectives were new to him, probably manufactured on the spot by someone who put the term “road rage” on the map.

During the early days of their partnership, Neal watched helplessly as a determined Federal Agent cut other drivers off, slewed around corners, and sped through changing amber lights that had hapless pedestrians dodging the charging car like matadors in a bull ring. Things really got dicey when Peter became impatient, popped the black sedan’s flashing lights, and floored it. This was New York, so other drivers tended to ignore caution as well as sirens. That entailed some hairy almost-collisions at intersections.

Peter’s CI found himself taking defensive actions while trapped in what seemed to be a suicide vehicle. He pushed his own right foot down firmly on an imaginary brake pedal on his side of the car and braced his hands on the dashboard. He may have actually broken out in a sweat a time or two, or cowardly closed his eyes as he waited to meet his Maker. It took a while before Neal realized that Peter was actually enjoying his discomfort.

“You don’t have to convince me that you have a death wish, Peter,” Neal scoffed. “It’s pretty evident that it’s only a matter of time before you get us creamed and we’re thrown to the asphalt resembling something akin to road kill.”

“I’m a good driver, Buddy. Haven’t I always gotten us where we need to go in one piece?” Peter bragged.

“The day isn’t over yet,” Neal retorted, embarrassed that Peter had gotten to him. Neal Caffrey was supposed to possess nerves of steel. Something drastic had to be done so that he could condition himself to endure imminent danger on the streets of Manhattan that had nothing to do with nefarious criminals.

A few weeks later, Peter was rushing to the scene of a robbery like a bat out of hell. When he glanced over at his partner, Neal was calmly relaxed back in his seat taking in the blur of images that were flashing by his passenger window at warp speed.

“You look pretty copacetic, Neal. Did you learn self-hypnosis, or maybe you’ve started taking tranquilizers or something?” Peter asked suspiciously.

“What? Uh—no , Peter,” Neal said innocently.

“Well, you don’t seem your normal nervous self while I’m behind the wheel,” Peter sounded puzzled.

Neal shrugged. “I’ve taken steps to desensitize myself.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” Peter didn’t like being in the dark.

_“Desensitization,”_ Neal drew out the word carefully. “It’s a psychological process that ‘diminishes emotional responsiveness to a negative stimulus after repeated exposure, especially when the emotion is repeatedly evoked in situations in which the action tendency is irrelevant or unnecessary.’ That’s actually a direct quote from a psychiatric journal. I can send you a link, if you’d like,” he added helpfully.

“I know what the friggin’ word means, Neal,” Peter sputtered. “What I want to know is how you’re going about it.”

“Well, you may not be aware that Mozzie has gotten himself a cab medallion, and I now frequently do ride-alongs with him. He likes to play chicken with other vehicles just like you do, and he may rival your craziness on the street.”

“I’m definitely a better driver than he is,” Peter snorted in derision. “I actually took an evasive defense driving course at Quantico. That little bald twit can’t hold a candle to my expertise. Hell, he probably can’t even see over the steering wheel without the aid of a cushion under his butt.”

“Want to put your boasting to a test?” Neal taunted. “We could always go out to the Jamaica Salt Flats by the airport and reenact that nail biting drag race scene from the movie, _Rebel Without a Cause._ You could be a stunt double for James Dean and we could see whether it’s you or Mozzie who ends up in the Bay.”

“There’s no need for that malarkey,” Peter said forcefully. “I already know I’m the better driver. But if being your little buddy’s wingman keeps you from peeing your pants, then I’m all for it!”

~~~~~~~~~~

Some weeks later, Peter and Neal went undercover to an elegant soiree at a bluestocking’s mansion in Westchester County. Somehow, Reese Hughes and other shadow figures at the Bureau had wangled an invitation and vetted them so they were part of a guest list that included politicos, lawyers, business tycoons, and influential Wall Street types.

Luther Harrington, the lord of the manor, was a pretentious snob who took great pride in telling people he could trace his lineage back to the Mayflower. His simpering wife, Anne, was just as elitist, and her claim to fame was membership in the austere little sorority called the DAR, as in the _Daughters of the American Revolution._ Tonight, their little clan of likeminded sycophants were enjoying good wine and gourmet food after the host had first proudly showed his guests his latest acquisition—a sleek custom-detailed Tesla S Model that came with a price tag upwards of $300,000. It stood in a climate controlled building alongside other vehicles that were just as rare and expensive.

Peter and Neal were here tonight because the FBI suspected that Harrington collected other things as well—things like little sparkly baubles that he had commissioned certain people to steal from the New York Diamond Exchange. With a hopeful prayer, they thought Mrs. Harrington might just be wearing some of the stolen items tonight to impress her guests.

Neal could spot a piece of purloined ice at 20 paces, but even when he got up close and personal with the matron, he knew they were screwed. Tonight the lady had decided to go with emeralds to match her low-cut green dress.

“No dice, Peter,” he told his handler, “but just to be clear, those puppies aren’t real.”

“Are you saying the emeralds around her neck are fake?” Peter asked in confusion.

“No, I’m referring to the lady’s cleavage—definitely implants,” Neal nodded wisely.

“Damn it, Neal, get your head in the game!” Peter hissed.

“Okay, I hear you, but I can’t help being keenly observant. So, now what?” Neal asked his handler. “Do we play this out and stick around for cigars and cognac in the billiard room with Colonel Mustard and Mrs. Peacock?”

“I don’t want this to be a wasted trip,” Peter groused as he chose his next words carefully. “I’m going to make a suggestion that would cost me my badge if Hughes found out. But this Harrington dude is a swaggering buffoon who pushes all my buttons. My gut tells me he’s somehow dirty.”

“The old Burke gut detector is usually right on the money,” Neal grinned before making a confession. “I find myself experiencing an emotional high when you occasionally bend the rules. It makes Peter Burke, the FBI robot, somehow more human.”

“Cut the color commentary, Neal!” Peter said gruffly.

“Well, can I just ask you to tell me your dubious suggestion?” Neal wheedled, although he already had a pretty good idea what it might be.

Peter hesitated then drew in a fortifying breath. “Maybe you could do what you do best, Neal, like case this monstrosity of a home.”

“Do you really think the Lady Anne is going to leave her rings and her pendant lying around on the bathroom counter next to the soap dish?” Neal smirked as he rolled his eyes.

“No, genius, forget the bathrooms,” Peter instructed. “Locate the master suite and see if you can find a safe somewhere in a closet or hidden behind a mirror or a picture.”

“And then do what?” Neal needed it spelled out.

“Like I said, do what you do best,” Peter whispered.

“I do a lot of things well, as you know. But isn’t what you’re asking me to do against the rules because we don’t have a warrant due to lack of probable cause?”

“So, now you’re a Boy Scout?” Peter mocked. “I knew I never should have given you that textbook on Warrant Law to read.”

“I’m confused,” Neal stalled.

Peter gave a deep, frustrated sigh. “Look, Neal, just find a safe, crack it, and see what’s inside. Don’t take a thing, not even a picture. If the jewelry is there, then we’ll know we’re on the right track and we’ll just have to find another way to take this guy down.”

“If you say so,” Neal said with a grin before making himself scarce.

After Neal evaporated like a specter, Peter hung around the periphery of the room, not interacting much, but forcing himself to listen to men pontificate about bull and bear markets and discuss yachting regattas. Every once in a while, he compulsively glanced at his watch. Neal had now been AWOL for thirty minutes.

Suddenly, everyone froze as a scream came from somewhere upstairs. Peter just knew Neal was the reason for that scream. As intrepid male guests started streaming up the steps, Peter pivoted on his heel and headed for the front door. From past experience, he knew Neal the Cat Burglar of yesteryear always factored in another means of escape when cornered. Peter was right on the money when Neal was precipitously dropping down from a second story balcony.

“Time to hit the road, Partner,” the young man called over his shoulder as he hurried off to the long queue of cars parked along the winding driveway. Peter was right on his heels heading for the Taurus, but, unfortunately, the FBI car was wedged, bumper to bumper, between a Bentley and a Lexus. Neal immediately slewed to his left, vaulted over a split-rail fence, and headed for the low-slung building housing Harrington’s automotive toys. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder just in time to see Peter take a header over that same fence and land in a graceless heap.

Neal was immediately by his handler’s side. “Are you okay, Buddy? Can you walk?”

Peter grunted as Neal jerked him to his feet, but he immediately collapsed again when his right ankle wouldn’t bear his weight. The two men could hear voices behind them on the driveway, and it appeared a determined posse was getting closer. Neal slung Peter’s arm around his neck allowing the older man to perform a type of locomotion that was somewhere between a limp and a hop. Peter kept mumbling that God was punishing him for breaking the rules, and his tuxedo was a sweaty mess by the time they entered the wealthy man’s huge garage. Perhaps it was good that he was too distracted to see Neal’s expression of delight as he retrieved the clearly marked key fob for the newest addition to Harrington’s stable.

“Hot damn! I never thought I’d get to tool around in one of these babies,” Neal remarked gleefully to his partner as he stuffed Peter into the passenger seat. “Probably not a lot of leg room, but cowboy up, Agent Burke,” a giddy young man sang out as he revved the engine and virtually flew the new car out the doors.

Peter clenched his jaw as that same white split-rail fence flashed by like the enclosure around the racing oval at Churchill Downs during the Kentucky Derby. In this particular race, there were actually over 500 horses galloping under the hood of the Tesla. In a matter of seconds, the speedometer was passing the 100 mph mark with a determined Neal negotiating the curves with graceful finesse.

“What the hell happened back there?” Peter growled as he tried to get his ankle in a position that didn’t send waves of pain up his calf muscles.

“A bit of a snag,” Neal shrugged. “I found the safe in the master bedroom, just as we thought. It was behind a painting. The short version is, I cracked it and found some stuff, but just when it was getting interesting, a maid entered the room to turn down the bed, and—well, you know the rest of the story because we’re living it right now.”

“You’re losing your touch, Neal!” Peter chided, although his curiosity was piqued. “What kind of stuff, exactly?”

“A very eclectic kind of _stuff_ ,” Neal grinned. “The missing pieces of jewelry from the Diamond Exchange were there along with a lot of other curiosities. I found items with questionable provenance like rare, uncirculated collector-quality stamps and antique gold coins. Apparently, our boy wants what he wants, even if it’s not on the market. But pots of money and knowing the right people can get you the unattainable. There is, however, one downside of indulging himself in that manner. He’d never be able to insure them and collect on their value if they were stolen.”

“Neal, you didn’t take anything and stick it in your pocket, did you?” Peter was suddenly uncomfortably suspicious.

“Really, Peter? You’re asking me that?” Neal replied mockingly. “I promise I didn’t commit any acts of larceny tonight.”

“Right, except for grand theft auto!” Peter snorted. “Now, that _is_ something Harrington can definitely report to the police!”

“I’m not stealing this car,” Neal objected. “I’m just borrowing it for a youthful joyride. When I overcome my adrenalin rush, I’ll leave it somewhere so it can be returned to Mr. Harrington at a later date.”

But, Peter’s words were a bit prophetic because now the sound of sirens split the night air. “I guess they’re playing our song,” Neal grinned as he began singing the words to the old Bee Gees hit, _“Stayin’ Alive.”_ His foot became leaden as he jammed the accelerator to the floor and put the luxury car through its paces. Peter thought this may be like riding on Japan’s bullet train, and he fumbled for his shoulder restraint while maintaining a death grip on the walnut dashboard with his other hand. The operator of this locomotive only slowed slightly to access the Taconic State Parkway.

Now there were open paths before them, quite a different tableau than the usual lines of congested morning commuters traveling at a snail’s pace into New York City. Tonight, huge tractor/trailers with their heavy loads dominated the roadway, lumbering along like monstrous behemoths in any lane they chose because they had intimidating size on their side. Neal was undaunted and goosed the Tesla into high gear while darting around and between them like an annoying gnat.

“Neal, slow down!” Peter insisted. “The Taconic is the most treacherous roadway in New York. I recall reading that there are, on average, 1000 car crashes on stretches of this highway every year. It has twists and turns that suddenly come up on you, and sometimes an emerging misty fog renders drivers virtually blind.”

“Relax, Peter,” Neal grinned. “I’m a good driver.”

“You’re a suicidal idiot!” Peter yelled as Neal zoomed into an oncoming lane when two semis, ambling along, side by side, gridlocked his forward progress. One long haul road warrior yanked on his air horn and gave a middle finger salute as the Tesla nearly clipped his front grill.

“Neal!! You’re going to get us killed!” Peter was now rigidly fatalistic. He hoped El would be able to have an open casket for his funeral.

“Not so much fun being a co-pilot, is it?” Neal mocked. “Here’s a riddle for you, Buddy. What did one kamikaze pilot say to the other kamikaze pilot?”

Peter refused to respond, so Neal provided the answer—“Sayonara!”

Neal’s laugh was cut short when flashing lights appeared on his left. A phalanx of State Police vehicles were approaching from the south, intending to cross the grass median and take up the pursuit. Undoubtedly, other cops were also not far behind determined to catch up.”

“Neal, just pull over and surrender to the inevitable,” Peter implored. “Maybe I can get it sorted out somehow.”

“Aw, Peter, where’s your sense of ‘fly by the seat of your pants’ adventure? Tell me, Buddy, what’s the state of _your_ tighty whities right now?”

Peter ignored the taunt. “Neal, think three steps ahead and get into the mindset of some really angry Staties. They’re probably setting up a roadblock ahead or maybe paving the way with some tire spike strips. At our high rate of speed, this rocket will probably do a few somersaults in midair. Do you really want to go out that way?”

“Good thinking, Buddy,” Neal agreed as he suddenly flew off an exit ramp near Poughkeepsie. That brought them onto a two-lane road with rolling green mountains off in the distance. Neal had reduced his speed to 40 mph as the winding thoroughfare entered a suburban area with two-story apartment buildings and mundane little houses anchored on miniscule plots of lawn. Eventually, strip malls appeared on either side.

“Now I’m completely lost,” Peter admitted, although he was very glad this guided missile had morphed back into an automobile. “If I can get my phone out of my pocket, we can use Google maps to get us home.”

“Don’t bother, Peter. That’s like cheating. I’ve got this because I’m used to finding my way by dead reckoning.” Then, like a kid with ADD, Neal was distracted. “Oh, look—a coffee shop. Let’s refuel our caffeine engines.” All Peter could do was roll his eyes in exasperation, but he was a captive with a gimpy foot strapped in his seat at the mercy of a mercurial speed demon.

Neal had pulled up to the outside window of a Starbucks, placed his order for a double expresso, then turned to Peter awaiting his choice. Peter had dared to loosen his white-knuckled grip on parts of the car’s interior and was flexing his fingers to restore circulation. He looked petulant as he shook his head and glared. “We need to talk!” he growled.

Neal collected his coffee and glided into an open parking space. “You look a bit cranky, Peter,” he said nonchalantly. “You should look happier since I solved your case for you.”

“How do you figure that!” Peter barked. “Even if you saw the stolen items in Harrington’s safe, they can’t be considered damning evidence. That’s because Neal Caffrey, known cat burglar, broke into the guy’s larder to take a gander. See how that looks? Even if, by some off-chance, we could get an indictment without the stopgap measure of a warrant, any half-witted lawyer will bury us in a court of law. This is a real clusterfuck!”

“Not really,” Neal drawled with a little smile. “Maybe we can’t get him for possessing stolen jewelry, but we can nail him for art theft with all our legal bases neatly covered.”

“Explain!” Peter demanded.

Neal was nothing if not proudly forthcoming. “Remember I told you that the safe was hidden, not so discretely, behind a painting? Well, I just happen to know that what was hanging in plain view was an authentic Renoir masterpiece. _La Parisienne_ , or its more familiar English title, _The Blue Lady_ , was painted by the renowned French artist in 1874. The model for this famous artwork was Henriette Henriot, an actress at the Odéon theatre. When the painting was first exhibited at an Impressionist exhibition back in the day _,_ it was described as a failure by critics. But now it is among Pierre-Auguste Renoir’s most acclaimed paintings. In 1952, it was acquired by the National Museum of Wales. A few years ago, the treasure went missing, and now we know exactly where it wound up. Maybe Harrington appreciated great art worth a king’s ransom, or maybe his wife wanted it because it matched the draperies. Either way, he’s in possession of stolen goods.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “How do you know all this about that painting? Are you the one who stole it while you were cruising through Europe on your crime spree?”

“I make it a point to keep abreast of things in the art world, and I especially like Renoir,” Neal answered only part of Peter’s question before surging ahead. “Peter, stay focused. This is the smoking gun we can use to take Harrington down. Forget about jewelry for the moment and concentrate on the real prize. We were invited in by the owner of the home, the stolen painting was in plain sight in the guy’s possession, so that means we can get a warrant which will enable the Feds to see everything on the premises, including stuff locked away from prying eyes. You can thank me later, Buddy.”

Peter was thoughtful. “That might fly,” he mused. “Now, drink your coffee and get us home while obeying every damn traffic ordinance.”

“Maybe I should drop you off at an Urgent Care in the city so you can get your ankle x-rayed.” Neal suggested.

“Just drive, Neal!” Peter hissed.

~~~~~~~~~~

With a lot of tapdancing, which was figurative because of his swollen ankle, Peter was able to get Reese Hughes on board. Luther Harrington eventually got his car returned. Some Federal Agents actually drove it back to his estate when they went to execute a search warrant. The snobbish man’s fall from grace was stupendous and had tongues wagging all over the city.

It was another win for the Burke-Caffrey team, so a lot of shenanigans were discretely overlooked and swept under the rug. Peter was pleased, but his good mood was tainted during the following weeks. Torn ligaments in his Achilles tendon had sidelined any driving in the near future. Now, a certain confidential informant was his chauffeur, and Peter was getting a dose of his own medicine. Payback was a bitch. But, just for the record, his tighty whities remained dry as a bone, thank you very much.


End file.
